


days before the end of the world

by literaryFRIVOLOUSneophyte



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie) Compliant, Bottom T'Challa (Marvel), M/M, Top Bucky Barnes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-02
Updated: 2018-05-02
Packaged: 2019-05-01 04:20:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14512416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/literaryFRIVOLOUSneophyte/pseuds/literaryFRIVOLOUSneophyte
Summary: T’Challa is like the sun. When he looks at Bucky, it almost hurts to meet his gaze.





	days before the end of the world

**Author's Note:**

> im not a dedicated marvel fan so sue me if i missed some plot shit. i just have a thing for self imposed exiles and i thot service top bucky/power bottom t’challa would be hot and i was right! halfway through writing this i remembered nakia, im so sorry baby, just imagine theyre in an open relationship or something.

In the early morning, before light spills out of the belly of the clouds, Bucky makes himself breakfast by candlelight. Cheese and bread. Maybe an omelette. A glass of milk or freshly squeezed juice. Sometimes, meat. He eats alone, except for the birds outside, just beginning to sing. Then he ties his hair up and gets to work. The routines keep him sane. By the time his chores are done, sweat gleams on his muscles as the sun probes the back of his neck.

No more winter. There is a warmth here that never leaves his skin. The rain, when it comes, is light as flute-music on his thatched roof. It never falls hard enough to remind him of gunfire.

The sun rises and sinks. He bathes in the moonlight and washes his hair every other day. He whittles when he can’t sleep, making little animals to put by his bed like talismans and small bowls to fill with fruit or to beat eggs in. He enjoys the heat and especially the silence - the great echoing silence of the countryside, miles from the nearest city. He prefers solitude, or at least, feels safer in it.

He sleeps easier, though some nights he still loses to insomnia, with the distant whispers of the river where he hauls buckets of water back and forth. He loves the smell of the grass and the animals and his own overripe scent, like Brooklyn summers spent wrestling with other boys in the dirt or chasing pretty girls at Coney Island, drenched in sweat and sticky with cotton candy.

Nowadays he has someone far more skilled to wrestle with. T’Challa comes to him, infrequently, in a purple-embroidered tunic with gold around his throat. His face has changed; he's aged considerably since his father’s death. He wears a diplomat’s smile that doesn’t reach his eyes but is attractive nonetheless. He treats Bucky with respect, but it comes from an impersonal place, from a king’s respect for all life.

Bucky, in his linen shirt and mud-smeared pants, feels beastly next to him. And, even stronger, he feels the urge to kneel. T’Challa is like the sun. When he looks at Bucky, it almost hurts to meet his gaze. They talk very little. There is nothing to say. They don’t even talk about the books T’Challa sometimes brings him, since Bucky turned down a tablet.

But T’Challa always returns to the same question, spoken delicately but directly, “Do you mind if I stay the night?”

In those moments, Bucky becomes aware of the nearness of their thighs, the smell of cologne and shea in T’Challa’s skin. They sit, in the bright spacious room, close enough for him to notice the curve of his lashes against his cheek like the shadows of broad green leaves. He never stops wanting to kiss his face, his eyelids.

Every time T’Challa asks, Bucky grunts in affirmation. They speak to each other through their bodies. It starts with their hands, coming together, coming apart, unmaking and reshaping. His fingers are calloused while T’Challa’s are soft and manicured. He gently takes T’Challa into his bed, and then it’s their mouths, Bucky’s iron-salt taste and T’Challa’s herbal tongue.

Sweltering touches. T’Challa’s pulse is hot against Bucky’s wet lips. They merge, slow and sweet like the current of the river. Usually it takes a while for Bucky to get an erection, but T’Challa never once shows impatience and he's never disappointed when Bucky can't. He reveals him like a ripe banana, licking, sucking, swallowing. He doesn't expect Bucky to receive him like he likes to receive; Bucky can't imagine being that vulnerable for another person.

T’Challa comes prepared, wet and loose for him. Bucky’s chest presses against T’Challa’s smooth back, moving underneath him like the ocean at high tide. He worships the way his fingers sink to the knuckle, the way T’Challa arches his back and moans. He demands in his rich voice, “More. Deeper.” Bucky obeys, rubbing inside him ritualistically, finding T’Challa’s pleasure like the hard seed hidden in the sweet flesh of fruit. 

Bucky doesn’t have to think about it. He just has to touch here, grab there, thrust in and out. Fingernails dig into his back and blood rushes to the surface. A mouth to his ear, “Yes, yes, good.” He can be good. He can be his beast for the night.

T’challa is silent when he reaches his climax. Sometimes Bucky can follow him there. Sometimes he cannot. Either way, he enjoys their brief moments of intimacy. 

He sleeps for a long time afterward. He dreams of being a boy, being young and kind, before he hurt anyone. He wakes up naked and alone, wishing T’Challa could come more often, imagining the king returning to his throne with the slickness between his thighs. But this is all they can ever have in the days before the end of the world.

**Author's Note:**

> t’challa: welcome to wakanda the most technologically advanced civilization on earth  
> bucky, unshaven, sweaty, sleep-deprived: cool i just want to raise goats  
> t’challa: oh i HAVE to fuck him


End file.
